


Getting Harder to Breathe (So Save Your Breath)

by leere



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Dom/sub, Dominant Bottom, Face Slapping, Handcuffs, Light Bondage, M/M, Marking, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:25:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6742930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leere/pseuds/leere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dom/sub thing is just a bonus; it keeps Patrick happy, he likes the control and he's possibly got a slight sadistic side that's satisfied by the way they fuck, and Pete's always kind of been into pain. Win win on both ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting Harder to Breathe (So Save Your Breath)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on actual fics with actual plot, I swear. I just get distracted by porn a lot. So this happened as a result of procrastination and a fascination with breathplay lmao. I've always loved power bottom Patrick, but I wanted straight up D/s with, like, hardcore dominant-but-still-bottom Patrick (because that boy would like having a dick up his butt and you know it, yet he'd totally get off on Pete being his bitch), so this was the result. D/s is a hard thing to work with so I hope I didn't butcher it, but wow, this was fun to write. Hope you enjoy.

Pete always knew Patrick was bossy. That was clear from day one, when Patrick sternly said, "Shut the door behind you," as soon as Pete stepped into his house, and Pete had listened but given Joe an oh-my-god-what-are-we-getting-into look. He's got a napoleon complex (so does Pete, honestly, but that's beside the point), and he's five feet of fury, and he's bitchy as hell. But he never imagined any of that stuff would translate to Patrick's sex life. 

But then they fuck for the first time, in a shitty little hotel in Milwaukee, while Andy visits his mom and Joe's off doing God knows what. And it's going well, Pete's thrusting three fingers into Patrick, who's sweating and panting and writhing on Pete's hand - but then Patrick reaches down, manually pulls Pete's fingers out of his ass, and uses the same hand to yank him up by his hair. "Fuck me," he demands, lifting his hips, spreading his thighs even wider. "Now."

"Yes, sir," Pete says, grinning, as goofy as ever, but then he sees Patrick's expression and finds himself scrambling to obey. He's fairly certain that it'd be a really, really bad idea to piss Patrick off right now.

Patrick keeps a hand wrapped tight in Pete's hair the whole time, tugging hard enough to hurt, hard enough that Pete's pretty sure a few hairs are ripped from his scalp. He doesn't mind, not when he's buried to the hilt in Patrick, who's legs are wrapped tightly around his waist and who's whining in rhythm to Pete's thrusts, hips grinding back against him. His other hand's reaching back behind Pete, firmly gripping his ass so he can guide him, trying to direct the situation even while he's getting fucked. It's nice, giving up the control and letting Patrick boss him around, and Pete's just thinking about how he could get totally used to this when Patrick gasps, "Don't come yet, come when I tell you to."

And Pete tries that, holds on until Patrick says, even though he's literally ready to blow the second Patrick's hips jerk and he clenches impossibly tight around Pete and comes all over both their stomachs. 

"Okay," Patrick says, still panting, thighs still trembling from where they're bracketing Pete's waist. He swallows hard and wipes the sweat off his forehead, licking his lips. "Okay. You can come now."

Pete hikes Patrick's thighs up higher, ignoring the way he winces, overstimulated, no doubt, and gives it all he's got. He comes with a ragged moan, dropping his head down to Patrick's shoulder and giving a few more weak thrusts.

Patrick pets his hair softly for a moment as they lay breathing hard, then says, "Deal with the condom, let's get to sleep."

And Pete finds himself obeying once again, mindlessly, pulling out and offering Patrick a grin when he makes a face at the feeling. He ties the condom and tosses it into the trash can by the door, then crawls back into bed and falls asleep with Patrick rubbing his back and humming in his ear.

Some ten years later, Patrick's still exactly the same. If anything, he's a lot more experienced and confident that he used to be, and he's done a lot more research. They switch up occasionally, of course, but they've pretty much established that Patrick really enjoys domming Pete while he's being fucked. Not that Pete minds; he'd never say no to being balls deep in Patrick's ass, which is still tight even after all his years of taking dick, and the dom/sub thing is just a bonus; it keeps Patrick happy, he likes the control and he's possibly got a slight sadistic side that's satisfied by the way they fuck, and Pete's always kind of been into pain. Win win on both ends. 

Now, though, they've just gotten off tour, and Pete's been out for two hours, shopping because the house has been empty so long, all their food's expired. When he gets home, he calls for Patrick and gets no response, so he just shrugs and puts the groceries away by himself.

Then he wanders around, checking every room for his bespectacled boyfriend. He reaches their bedroom and peeks in, praying he'll walk in on something worth seeing. Sure enough, Patrick's laying naked on their bed, every inch of his pale skin on display, and he's got three fingers in his ass and he's arching up, body taut. Pete can see his ribs poking out, and he doesn't like it, still isn't used to this skinny Patrick, although he has to admit, he does like that Patrick's thin enough and Pete's bulked up enough that wall sex is possible now.

Regardless, Patrick looks up when he walks in, expression decidedly slutty. Pete likes Patrick likes this, likes the confidence he's got now, likes how said confidence gets Pete laid almost daily, likes how it allows them to do things in the bedroom the old Patrick never would've agreed to participate in. He misses the soft, chubby Patrick sometimes, of course, but he definitely appreciates what the weight loss has done to Patrick's self esteem. And to his libido and stamina alike - before the hiatus, there'd been one too many instances of Patrick being too tired to fuck, or too lazy, and there was even that one time when he had an asthma attack while Pete was sucking him off. Not a fun memory for either of them.

Now, though, he spreads his thighs wider and runs his fingers over where he's stretched and wet, biting his lip and grinning deviously at Pete.

Pete squints at him, wary even though his dick's hard in his basketball shorts. Patrick's up to something, and the last time he was up to something, Pete ended up with minor burns for a week from candle wax. Ever since then, Pete's forced him to extensively research the topic before they try anything new. "What are you doing?"

"Get naked and get rubbered," Patrick says, standing off the bed. His dick bounces when he moves, and Pete stares at it and licks his lips. "Pete," Patrick snaps. "That's an order. You have thirty seconds."

Patrick's punishments when Pete doesn't obey him vary, although it's usually something involving Pete not getting to get off for a given amount of time - anything from cock rings to no sex for weeks at a time to Patrick not letting him come after getting himself off. Pete doesn't really want to be punished at all, so he strips quickly, grabs a condom from the nightstand, then clambers onto the bed. He sits back against the headboard, rips the foil with his teeth, tosses the wrapper to the ground, and rolls it on. Then he looks up at Patrick expectantly.

"Touch yourself," Patrick says, crawling onto the bed on his hands and knees and then sitting back on his heels. Pete stares at his thighs, pale and so thick, looks at the hickies and bruises that are still there from the last time they fucked. He jolts when Patrick suddenly backhands him, and he looks up at him, eyes wide. Patrick never hits him. The blonde's frowning at him. "Get with it, Pete. I wanna get fucked, hurry up and get yourself hard, come on."

Pete looks down at himself and licks his palm, curling a hand around his half hard dick, jerking himself off until his dick's heavy against his stomach. He looks up, and at some point Patrick slipped off the bed, because now he's standing to Pete's right, holding the handcuffs they don't break out very often.

Pete makes a face. "Do we have to use those? They hurt."

"Good," Patrick smirks. "Put your arms up."

Pete sighs but obeys, lifting his arms so Patrick can handcuff his wrists to the headboard. Patrick does, and Pete scowls. He hates being restrained like this, he likes being able to hold Patrick's hips while he's riding him, likes to touch Patrick's face and push his fingers into his mouth, but he can't do that and he hates it. Plus it's uncomfortable as hell. Pete's wrists are burning already, the edges of the metal tearing into his flesh. Pete always made fun of fuzzy handcuffs, but now he's starting to see the appeal.

"I was going to get one of my toys, that'd be fun, but I think your dick should do just fine," Patrick says, climbing onto the bed again and throwing a leg over Pete's thighs, straddling him. "Think I'm gonna finger myself for a while, I don't think you deserve my ass right away."

 _I'm getting punished even though I haven't done anything bad in a long ass time, and that's total bullshit, oh shit he's using three fingers right off the bat, holy shit._ Pete watches Patrick sit up and spread his legs and lean back, sinking three fingers inside his ready hole. He stares down at where Patrick's fucking himself, scowling because he wants to be inside of him and he wants it now, but he's done _something_ wrong and Patrick's definitely not going to give him what he wants.

Patrick's just playing with himself, he's not even touching his own dick, just teasing Pete and himself. He's got his lip caught between his teeth and he's staring at Pete, not moving his fingers, just his hips, grinding down. Pete can't tear his eyes away.

The ache that the cuffs are putting on his shoulders is gradually getting less bearable, and eventually Pete groans, "This is really painful, could you please stop fucking around?"

Patrick smirks at him and looks down at his dick, just inches from his own, licking his lips. He kind of wants to suck it, but it's not the time for that. Instead he leans forward and presses his mouth to Pete's ear, grinding his hips back so Pete's dick slides against his ass, but doesn't penetrate. It's torture, and Pete gives a tight little thrust, even though he's pretty much immobile. Patrick's got his hips pinned by sitting on him, he's got nowhere to go.

"You wanna fuck me?" Patrick says in Pete's ear, and this, this is the best part, this is what makes it all worth it; Patrick's dirty talk. He's not significantly good at it, stutters half the time because he's unsure of himself, but every word makes Pete melt. "You wanna be inside me? Wanna make me come?"

"Yesyesyes," Pete begs, arching up, trying to no avail to rut against Patrick's ass, because by now, fuck, his dick's rock hard and leaking and he's desperate. "Please, Patrick, please."

"You gonna be a good boy for me?" Patrick whispers, leaving kisses along Pete's neck, and his voice is so deep, low and and smokey and hot as hell. He doesn't usually bring out this voice, he's usually endearingly awkward when they're doing a scene - he likes having control over Pete and inflicting pain but he has a hard time keeping up the dominant persona. But now, he's fallen into the role perfectly; his eyes even gleam with a dangerous, authoritative power when he leans back, and Pete's in awe.

Patrick slaps him again, open palmed and hard, hard enough that there will probably be a red mark, not stark but definitely noticeable against his tan skin. "I'm fucking talking to you," he growls, and woah. This is. Patrick's not fucking around. Pete's read about subspace, never actually reached it himself, but he suddenly wonders if domspace is a thing and if Patrick's in it. "I said, are you gonna be a good boy for me?" And all of a sudden, authoritative Patrick goes away, and he's replaced by slutty Patrick, who pouts his lips and gives Pete big eyes. "I've been looking forward to you fucking me all day, Pete, I'll be really bummed if you're a bad boy and you make me resort to a vibrator. As fun as it is to fuck myself, I really do want your dick." He sits back, so Pete's cock is sliding up his cleft again, and he lifts his hand to his mouth and bites down on his thumb, looking at Pete with wide, innocent eyes.

Pete's fucking in love with him. He's been doing the bossy-then-innocent-then-bossy again thing for years, can switch between the two like there's a switch in his mind that he can flip effortlessly, and to Pete, nothing's hotter. Patrick knows just how to get him begging.

He wants to say he's beautiful, wants to tell him how fucking hot he is, but he knows right now wouldn't be a good time for that. Instead he says, "I'll be a good boy," and bows his head a little, a submissive move because he reads up on this shit regularly and he's maybe just a little too eager to please Patrick. 

Not that Patrick minds. He smiles sweetly and lifts himself up, so Pete's dick is right against his hole. And then he sinks down. All the way down.

Pete clenches his jaw and leans his head back, eyes shut tight, trying not to come right then, with Patrick opening up around him, hot and tight and heavy in his lap. He opens his eyes when Patrick wraps a hand in his hair and tugs gently, and Pete sees he's smiling faintly.

They can't see each other like this, unfortunately, way too close; for Patrick, Pete's just a blur of black and caramel and brown, and for Pete, Patrick's a mosaic of red and blonde and blue and pink. Pete can feel Patrick's breath against his face, can feel how he's trying not to clench, hand wrapped tight in Pete's hair, just like that first time.

"You okay?" he whispers, wishing he could stroke gentle fingers down Patrick's cheek, wishing he could push his sweaty blonde bangs out of his face. 

Patrick doesn't answer, just uses his free hand to pinch Pete's chin between his fingers, hard enough that he can feel the ridges of Pete's teeth and jaw beneath. He gives an experimental little bounce, lifting up then falling back down, and Pete grits his teeth and clenches his fists. Patrick's staring smugly at him, grinding his hips slow, his rhythm familiar and steady because they've done this a million times. 

It's good, it's absolutely great, Patrick's not pulling off Pete's dick all the way so he's always inside, always encased in Patrick's tight ass, always being clenched. Patrick's not bending down to kiss him and it's not like Pete can reach to initiate a kiss himself, so he presses his mouth to Patrick's collarbone in an open mouthed kiss, then moves down to suck at a nipple. He bites, and Patrick yanks him back by his hair and glowers at him. "Don't you fucking start."

Pete glares at him defiantly. He's not really enjoying this fully submissive role; usually it's more casual than this, Pete does as Patrick says but he's not expected to completely give up all control, and that's how he likes it. 

Patrick glares back at him, pulls lightly at his hair again. "Don't look at me like that, or I swear to God I'll get myself off and I won't let you come for a week." 

Patrick's done that to him before, taken showers with him to ensure he didn't jerk off in there, followed him into the bathroom when he peed because "your dick's gonna be in your hand and you're gonna be tempted, I know you, Pete." He'd followed through with it, and Pete didn't get an orgasm for an entire week - of course, once it was over, Patrick fucked him into the mattress and then sucked him off, and by the end of the night, Pete had come three times, so he supposed it'd been worth it in the end. 

Still, they've just got off tour, which is basically just two to three months of quick, terrible hand jobs, and even when they do nab a hotel night and get to fuck, they can never play too rough, so Pete's not about to lose a week's worth of sex when they've already got three month's worth to make up. So he falls silent again, lets Patrick fuck himself on his dick until he's panting hard and sweat's dripping off him. It shouldn't be hot, but it is, the way Patrick's thighs slide slickly against his every time he lifts up, the way Pete tastes salt when he sucks at Patrick's neck. 

He forgets the pain of the cuffs for a minute, distracted by the gorgeous sight of a moaning, writhing Patrick on top of him, but then he tries to move his arms and the pain's back, full on. His shoulders ache and his wrists are being rubbed raw, and before he can think better of it, he says, "Babe, can you please uncuff me, it's seriously hurting-"

Patrick's still got a hand in Pete's hair, and now he digs his nails into his scalp and pulls at the black strands, hard. Pete yelps, then stares with wide eyes at Patrick, who's gaze is essentially steel. "You wanna get slapped again? You're not in charge here, shut the fuck up or I'll gag you."

Pete bites his tongue so he doesn't retort like he wants to. He knows he can't come until Patrick says so, and he's actually kind of grateful that he can focus on the pain being inflicted on his arms instead of how close he is, because otherwise he'd probably be completely focused on trying not to come. This way, he can watch Patrick, even while the pain clouds his mind. 

Patrick stops abruptly and leans back so Pete can see where he's buried deep. He reaches down to touch at where they're connected, his eyelashes fluttering a little when he rubs at his rim, mouth opening in a breathy little moan that has Pete's hips involuntary jerking up.

"Patrick," he says, raggedly, because fuck, he wants to come just for the release for it, but also because once he's come he'll get these goddamn cuffs off. He's kind of considering using his safe word, but it's not too bad, if anything the pain's sharpening his other senses, so he doesn't.

Patrick's hands slide up his chest, thumbs skidding his nipples, before they curl around his neck. "Yeah?"

Pete swallows, and Patrick's gaze drops to watch his Adam's apple bob between his pale fingers, eyes dark and predatory in a way they're usually not. He squeezes a little tighter, and Pete's air cuts off, and he locks eyes with Patrick. He trusts him, he does, but Patrick's clearly not in his right mind right now and Pete can't help but be a little concerned. 

"Close your eyes when you need to breathe," Patrick says, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and it's probably not the most conventional way to do this, but it works. Pete can't really think reasonably when his brain's getting hazy. He closes his eyes tight and Patrick lets off immediately, and Pete sucks in a couple breaths. Patrick strokes his thumb down Pete's trachea for a moment, gentle, then pushes again, and again comes the panic, the hysteria, yet simultaneously, the weird sense of clarity, everything that he _is_ hyper focused on the need to breathe, the desperation for oxygen, and it blocks out the pain in his wrists and the ache in his shoulders and the pulse of his dick and Pete's mind is chanting _air, air, air_ and he can't think of anything else. He can't even do anything but focus on keeping his eyes on Patrick's and closing them when it's too much, and that's hard enough when his brain is using logic and knows damn well he needs to keep doing that, but his body's gone into panic mode over being choked. It's almost too much, and when Pete's just about to use his next breath to beg, "No more, no more, please," Patrick's letting go and reaching down, fisting his dick on his hand and shooting all over Pete's chest and biting down hard on his lip, staring at the red marks Pete's neck is undoubtedly ringed with. Pete watches him shudder as he's wheezing, trying desperately to get his breath back but still entranced with how fucking hot his boyfriend is, and Patrick closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a moment, then lifts himself off Pete's dick and shakily climbs off the bed and goes into the bathroom.

Pete's throat hurts like he's been screaming for twenty minutes when he speaks, but he manages to yell out, "What, so that's it? You get yourself off, then leave me with fucking blue balls? You dick."

Patrick comes out of the bathroom with a towel slung over his shoulder. He's naked otherwise, and he leans against the doorway and cocks his hip out a little and Pete groans. "Patrick, God, please, I'm fucking need to come."

Patrick comes over and climbs onto the bed again, kneeling between Pete's legs. He gets down on his knees and elbows and takes Pete's dick in his hand, and Pete stares at his ass, high in the air, and wonders how he got blessed with an amazing boyfriend who's not only his best friend, but also the ridiculously talented singer of his band, and a goddamn freak in bed. 

Patrick pulls the condom off and tosses it to the floor, then grips Pete's thigh in his left hand, digging his blunt nails in, and wraps his right hand around Pete's cock. He drizzles spit onto the head, then mouths along the side, dark eyes on Pete's, and Pete throws his head back, unable to bear looking. Looking's nearly just as good as feeling, truthfully, but it's not like Pete would ever object when Patrick's mouth is sliding down his dick, all the fucking way, until Pete can feel his cock hitting the back of Patrick's throat. He bucks up, but Patrick doesn't choke, even though he's gone a little red faced when Pete looks down again, just casually pulls off and bites his lip while he works his hand again. 

"Patrick, uncuff me, please," Pete says for the twentieth time, arching up when he feels Patrick's hot breath on his balls. "C'mon, fuck, I don't know if I can come, my wrists hurt too bad."

"Come on my face," Patrick says - well, orders, really - and Pete's dick twitches in Patrick's hand, and then he does just that; comes without meaning to, moaning when it hits Patrick on the chin, cheek, in his open mouth. Patrick mouths languidly at the head once Pete's gone soft, doesn't wipe the come from his face, just stares smugly up at Pete while he shudders through aftershocks. 

Then he sits up and reaches for the towel he's left next to him, wiping his face off with it. He grabs the key off the night stand and carefully unlocks Pete's cuffs, and Pete almost cries once he's free, rubbing at his sore wrists and rolling his shoulders. 

"No more cuffs if we do it for such a long time," Pete says, licking one of his wrists, as if that'd make it better. "Like, if I'm gonna be tied up for a long time like that, we don't do cuffs. Fuck, man, this shit fucking hurts."

"I think you jizzed up my nose," Patrick says, and Pete looks over to see that he's frowning up at the ceiling and wrinkling his nose.

"Aw, dude, what if uteruses were in noses and I just knocked up your nostrils?" Pete says, and Patrick turns to him, gives him his signature you're-so-fucking-weird-why-the-hell-do-I-love-you-you-freak look, and rolls over to flip off the light then settle down. "Are we going to bed already? 

"I just bounced on your dick for an hour, I think I deserve a nap," Patrick grumbles, barely audible when his face is smushed into his pillow. "Fucking cuddle me, asshole, that's an order."

"Yes, sir," Pete rolls his eyes, but he slides up behind Patrick and wraps an arm around him, loving the way he instantly relaxes back against Pete, ass settling in the craddle of Pete's hips; a perfect fit. "You're nursing my wounded wrists after we wake up, they're actually fucking raw."

"No problem, babe, sure," Patrick mumbles, and Pete nuzzles his neck and inhales the musky scent of him. He smells like strawberry lube and sweat, but it's okay.

Pete doesn't actually sleep at all, but Patrick does, and he's talking in his sleep, bitching at someone even in unconsciousness, and Pete grins and pulls him in tighter. He's a bossy son of a bitch, but Pete wouldn't like him any other way. That's a lie, he'd like Patrick even if he was a fucking walrus or something, but, you know, Pete's pretty damn fond of commanding, vaguely slutty Patrick who often demands to ride Pete's dick and choke him. The sex is always great, and outside of the bedroom, they're relationship is pretty damn good, too. Most of the time when they're not fucking, Pete genuinely enjoys Patrick's company - except when he's being a stubborn ass, when he eats all of Pete's donuts that he's had hoarding for himself in the cupboard for a week, and when he tries to argue with Pete about the best Tim Burton movie. Otherwise, Patrick's the best thing ever, he really is. 

Pete sneaks out of the bed after a half hour or so; he has to take care of his wrists and put some Icy Hot on his shoulders, and also he's got donuts in the cupboard that he wants to get to before Patrick does. He loves him a lot, but he doesn't love him enough to share his donuts.

As he munches on a sprinkled one, he catches sight of his reflection in the shiny metallic side of the toaster and squats lower until he can see the darkening press of fingers to his neck. He presses against the bruises lightly, smiling to himself. Pete's into being possessive, likes marking people up, likes marking _Patrick_ up, leaves purple hickeys on his neck so he has to wear lame scarfs during spring, fucks him hard enough that the bruises on his thighs prevent Patrick from wearing shorts for weeks on end during hot LA summers. But Pete likes being marked, too, even if he can't really show Patrick's brand on him off without the fans and media going crazy. Still, every time Patrick leaves bruises on him, Pete feels like he belongs, and he'll never get tired of feeling like that. 

When he eventually crawls back into bed and curls up behind Patrick again, Patrick grumbles and rolls over so his back's not facing Pete anymore and they're nose to nose. Pete kisses Patrick's just to watch it crinkle up, smiles to himself, and falls asleep with a hand on Patrick's warm thigh.


End file.
